How would the man wearing a hat describe tidal waves of salt & coral-like branches of salt.
Flying carpets of salt & police made of salt. Fish made of salt.
How would he describe the zero stamped on his documents.
How would he describe the wooden chair outside the chamber of the committee.
How would he describe his favourite song from happier days.
Beneath obsidian moonlight magicians fall in love.
In moonlight orioles glide underwater.
In cold water narwhals reveal the depth of the abyss.
At the crumbling edge of the abyss zebras surround a whispering pearl.
The pearl whispers, ‘Go into the night, obsidian moonlight.’
Magicians fall in love.
The pearl whispers the names of the Four Horsemen.
The Four Horsemen harness the magnetic energy of whirring machinery.
Beneath whirring machinery oil drips into infinity.
How would the man wearing a hat describe catfish & ballet & airplanes in tidal waves of salt.
How would he describe infinity streaming through his eyes.
How would he describe vibrating like Medusa.
How would he describe the consequences of miscalculation to the committee.
Children drag baskets filled with papyrus scrolls while pretending to live in rectangular time.
In the landscape of infinity magicians fall in love.
In moonlight oracles glide underwater.
How would the man wearing a hat describe shadows beneath tidal waves of salt.
Coral-like branches of shadow & flying carpets of shadow. Police made of shadow & fish made of shadow.
The shadow of a zero stamped on his documents.
Beneath obsidian moonlight magicians fall in love.
I posted this as a rough first draft and have since made numerous revisions. There is always so much one can do with a poem. Though at some point one must simply accept what is and move on.
I said frequencies come into view roaring like a whip-poor-will.
To within hearing range.
Within broadcasting range.
Within a marvelous & manifesting zone.
Except I didn’t say tone. I said zone.
Investigate the marvelous:
Track back to
a pulsing frequency
imagined as gossamer,
like that clear syrup you poured on pancakes,
in the air & not even sticky.
Except I didn’t say ode. I said code.
Remember that old song about a tomato,
You say: toe-MAH-toe
I say: toe-MAY-toe…
Except I didn’t say tomato at all.
I said alchemical frequencies.
Dialing landlines into clay.
Calibrate a fine-tuning.
I heard the eyelid open.
How does one hear from such a distance
if there is such a distance.
Track vibrations to their source
to evolving devolution
to devolving evolution.
Morphing into law or code.
Law or code tracked to a source
follow a firefly spiraling.
The source of the code fomenting sound.
A whip-poor-will swooping in a gyre, invisible to the bird of prey.
Remember that old song about a tomato,
You say: toe-MAH-toe
I say: toe-MAY-toe...
Except I didn’t say tomato at all.
I said thrum:
Amber-golden honeybees
pollinate the sun.
I said hum:
Rapid eye-movement beep.
Divining rod-flicker beep.
Levitating hypnopompic sun-stone beep.
Translucent wing-sheath
humming.
I bought a boomerang.
Silence! Hush!
Let you and me (one of us the fool) embroider a spoon large as a tapestry.
To spoof high officials with mock Greek Tragedy: How to SpoonfeedHoney.
To perform the pagaentry with sardonic flourish and redeeming severity.
Except I didn’t say money. I said honey.
I practice hooking my wrist.
At the market, behind seven hanging skins, I bought a boomerang inscribed with carving.
Expect
OM.
Beep
OM.
Amber-golden sun-stream OM
beeping hum, beeping thrum...
I purchase drops of oil annointing the boomerang.
A tacked up handbill publicizes theatrical spectacle of the highest form.
To sound
OM
spanning divinity to infinity.
Eyelid ascending…
A whip-poor-will descending
glides into the window light,
scratches at the stone of night.
OM sounding gyres, OM sounding omphalos
infinitely divine.
Infinity sounding
OM,
One eyelid open,
fingertip
shiatsu beneath the soil.
A silence of soil
in divine science, divine omen
infinitely OM.
A thrumming bluebird, thrumming gnat, thrumming comet,
(infinitely divine)
thrumming the speed of sound tearing a hole in shrouded time.
I conceal the boomerang within the folds of my Turin robe: echo of the divine.
Echo of the divine – tear a hole in time,
hurling, aimed into the mission,
sailing to omniscient vision
& to return
& to return.
In Turin return to shrouded silence,
raise the eyelid,
visualize OM.
In absent space, in disintegration
visualize OM.
OM onward OM in hallucinations of the heart.
Investigate the manifesting:
Track back to
a pulsing frequency
imagined as gossamer,
like that clear syrup you poured on pancakes,
in the air & not even sticky.
Remember that old song about a tomato,
You say:toe-MAH-toe
I say: toe-MAY-toe…
Except I didn’t say tomato at all.
Beneath the eyelid all is silent.
Silent night.
Tomato, summer 2022Photograph in Wikipedia I digitally rendered for purposes of non-commercial commentary.
Philip S. Callahan, Ph.D, influenced this poem, if I may call it a poem, with his unique research, discoveries, and ideas about sound & transmission related to the Irish round towers.
I listened earlier to Bob Dylan singing ‘As I Went Out One Morning’ and put up a blog post about the revolutionary Tom Paine and the lyrics to the song (on Dylan’s 1968 John Wesley Harding album) and a photo of Bob receiving the 1963 Thomas Paine award (& how he went on a rant against the respectable liberal audience) & so it goes. In the end I decided to simply show this B&W art (Medieval Gamblers) created in Photoshop today via digital collage & possibly using elements of ink drawings. I could feel the atmosphere of the medieval inn, and textures like wood and burlap, and the mood of danger lurking. There seems to also be danger lurking here & now so it’s not so difficult to intuit. As for gambling I’ve never allowed others to gamble with me. At least I’ve tried & so it goes.
As I went out one morning To breathe the air around Tom Paine’s I spied the fairest damsel That ever did walk in chains I offer’d her my hand She took me by the arm I knew that very instant She meant to do me harm
“Depart from me this moment” I told her with my voice Said she, “But I don’t wish to” Said I, “But you have no choice” “I beg you, sir,” she pleaded From the corners of her mouth “I will secretly accept you And together we’ll fly south”
Just then Tom Paine, himself Came running from across the field Shouting at this lovely girl And commanding her to yield And as she was letting go her grip Up Tom Paine did run, “I’m sorry, sir,” he said to me “I’m sorry for what she’s done”
dried flowers scatter across a night-coloured carpet.
The seahorse-ghost of my cubistic, star-like obsidian heart
envelops the buried clock-tower.
Elsewhere, the poetry of Marina Tsvetaeva
chanting vast agriculture of poetry.
Haystack-man nimble as a shadow-animal
swims within buoyant
star-like dimensions,
climbs an enormous staircase
enters an unlocked door.
His feet rise above tar-night shadow
skipping iike a child.
Elsewhere, the poetry of Marina Tsvetaeva
chanting the infinite mansions of poetry.
I wrote a short poem this morning in homage to Marina Tsvetaeva. The poem was spontaneous. A lifetime entered that quicksilver moment. I have revisited the poem and edited.
Wherever you are Marina, I accept your verdict.
Last night I read selections from Marina Tsvetaeva’s Art in the Light of Conscience: Eight Essays on Poetry (translated by Angela Livingstone).
‘Marina Tsvetaeva (1892-1941) was one of the four great Russian poets of the 20th century, along with Akhmatova, Mandelstam and Pasternak.’
‘For me, there are no essays on poetry as unique, as profound, as passionate, as inspiring as these. “Art, a series of answers for which there are no questions,” Tsvetaeva brilliantly asserts, and then goes on to ask questions we didn’t know existed until she offered them to us, and answers to some of poetry’s most enduring mysteries.’
My posting last week (Bring Out the Trees in the Heart) went from jumble to rumble. From first draft to resonance of final draft in real time over two or three days online editing.
I decided to make chicken soup yesterday but found one potato only. Should I walk 20 minutes & save 1.00 on a bag of organic potatoes or 40 minutes & save 1.75 at a small store I like. Instead I went down to the lakeshore with my artist friends Charles and Marc. We walked around in biting wind & driving thin snow discussing, among other things, the artist Cecily Brown.
A young artist this past week told me about the new movie Trial of the Chicago Seven and wondered what I knew about the subject matter. One thing is connected to another. It brought back a flood of connections I shared with him.
I had an old doctors’ bag like this, although black, the summer I was seventeen and headed out for California. Instead I ended up in a traveling carnival, one of the many that no longer exist, working for an artist who had a psychedelic tent show and two other attractions. I met & dialogued with the (late) artist’s daughter on Facebook.
I remembered the doctors’ bag after watching a few clips of the movie Trial of the ChicagoSeven on YouTube and instinctively compared now to then.
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